


If You Call My Name

by nagginggargoyle



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/F, Trans Female Character, popular dancer rachel, popular jock quinn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-02-28 10:11:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2728496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagginggargoyle/pseuds/nagginggargoyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quinn is a popular jock. Rachel is a popular dancer. Quinn has a crush on Rachel. Problem is, Rachel doesn't know Quinn exists. Literally. [trans Quinn, intersex Rachel, for Faberry Week day 7: coming out]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is part 1 of 2. I'll post the second part tomorrow. 
> 
> **Warning** for dysphoria, misgendering, cissexism, mentions of transphobia (some internalized), body image issues.

Quinn wakes up in a surge when her phone's alarm rings at 5:30 in the morning. She's got an hour before morning football practice, and honestly, getting dressed, eating breakfast and riding to school would take no more than thirty five minutes at most. But today she knows their school's dance group is scheduled for an early morning practice as well, and so she brushes her teeth in a flurry and shaves in quick, practiced motions and impatiently shoves on her uniform and distractedly finger combs her hair and drinks her energy drink on the way, and makes it just in time to spend twenty solid minutes pretending not to be watching the dance practice, hiding behind her big, bulky algebra textbook.

* * *

McKinley High's dance group isn't an official club – they don't have a supervisor or a club room, they don't participate in competitions, and they certainly don't receive an actual budget. They have unofficial but mutually agreed upon practices before or after school, and there's an unspoken agreement between all cultural clubs that the auditorium is theirs whenever it isn't otherwise in use. They mostly perform on breaks between classes or after school, in the courtyard, on the field, in the corridors, in the stoner space under the bleachers, even in the cafeteria.

They're not an official club and they never win any trophies, but whenever they get together to perform, there is always a crowd at least twenty students thick gathered around in an instant. Sometimes a teacher would stop by to watch, usually Schuester or Pillsbury, but sometimes Coach Sylvester too, seemingly equally critical and evaluating.

The reason for this is simply that their school's unofficial dance group is just very, very good.

They really are very good, but that is not why Quinn would jump out of bed before the sun's even risen to watch them practice. The reason for  _that_ , in all honesty, is Rachel Barbra Berry.

Rachel isn't the best dancer in McKinley High; that would probably be Mike, or Brittany. She's not the most popular, either; that honor, as well as that of being the worst grump, belongs firmly to Santana. Rachel is small and loud and a really bad dresser. But when she dances, absolutely nothing in the world exists except for her, as far as Quinn is concerned.

She could watch Rachel dance for hours; she could watch her forever. The way she jumps and crouches and stretches, muscles flexing and sweat soaking through her clothes; the way she smiles while doing it, intent and breathtaking and  _happy_. Her every movement deliberate, yet somehow almost careless. She's so obviously perfectly comfortable within her own body, and Quinn can't help finding that remarkably compelling.

And  _that's_  why Quinn gets up half an hour before she needs to, and sits crouched down on the bleaches, and covertly squints at McKinley's unofficial dance group from behind an unread algebra textbook, before running off to football practice, pretending she just got here.

* * *

Quinn loves football. She really does. The physicality of it is real, reassuring. It's one of the only ways, the only times she feels comfortable and fine and right in her body. She loves the pounding of her shoes on the ground, loves the burn of her muscles contrasting with the rush of endorphins, loves the way her mind narrows down into nothing but motion and direction and effort. When she plays, she is complete. When she plays, she is completely herself.

"Good practice, Lucas," Puck shouts to her and rams into her shoulder affectionately. "See you in the locker room!"

And just like that, the illusion is shattered, and once again she is too big and too buff and too male to really be anything but fucking  _Lucas_.

She shakes her head and bites the inside of her cheek as she heads into the boys' locker room. It really was a good practice, she reminds herself, and allows herself to enjoy the rest of her runner's high, at least.

* * *

She's eating lunch with Puck in the cafeteria when Rachel Berry, laughing and chatting happily, walks in, accompanied by a scowling Santana and a grinning Mercedes. Quinn stops chewing and stares, clutching her sandwich in both hands.

"Loosen up, Luke," Puck drawls, smirking. "You're gonna squirt thousand island sauce all over yourself."

Quinn swallows her half-chewed bite ruefully and glances down.

"Should I call them over?" Puck suggests.

Quinn glares at him. Her leg starts to bounce under the table. "Don't you dare."

He does anyway, but Santana just gives him a look, Mercedes shakes her head pityingly, and Rachel doesn't even notice. They sit down at a table with Brittany and Mike on the other side of the cafeteria.

"Impressive," Quinn remarks.

Puck laughs, unconcerned. "Guess Santana's still mad I made out with Brittany."

"You deserve it."

"Whatever, we had fun. Britt even said I was her best boy kiss."

Quinn shakes her head and focuses on her sandwich. She tries to keep her attention away from the table where Rachel sits, eating and smiling with her friends. But once she's finished her lunch, her eyes keep drifting in Rachel's direction.

Puck kicks her under the table. "So when are you gonna ask her out," he says casually, taking an enormous bite from his burger.

Quinn shrugs.

"What the fuck's even stopping you? You're a pretty hot guy. Your guns aren't as awesome as mine, obviously, but I'll admit you've got decent abs. And you're the fucking quarterback. Do you seriously think she'd reject you?"

Quinn fidgets with the empty wrapping of her sandwich, chews on the side of her tongue. "Yeah," she admits simply.

Puck groans. "Dude, you're becoming a fucking liability. I can't have guy friends who are virgins."

"Literally all your guy friends are virgins," Quinn informs him mildly.

"Okay, but none of them are as obvious as you are, god. I have a reputation to uphold and shit."

Quinn shrugs again. Puck's reputation is somewhere along the bottom of her list of things she cares about. She tells him so and he laughs.

"Yeah, I love you too, man. Fucking virgin boy."

She wonders what he would say if she told him. She could say,  _Actually, I'm not a boy_. Casual, confident. Irrefutable. She tries to imagine his reaction. Would he be repulsed, and lash out? Or would he think it's hot, and offer to get rid of her virginity for her? She's not sure what would be worse.

She thinks about telling him anyway, from time to time. He's Puck. Posturing, but ultimately harmless. Her friend. But then she remembers the first and only time she told someone, and she thinks better of it.

Besides, Puck's not really  _her_  friend, she reminds herself. Just Lucas's.

* * *

The rest of the day passes without incident, and Quinn's last class is even dismissed five minutes early. She has enough time to pass through her apartment and spend ten minutes flipping through channels and munching on unheated leftovers from last night before heading for work. It's not even four pm yet, but she's already halfway to exhausted. She promises herself a long bath after work today.

Work goes well, too. She makes some deliveries and helps the new girl fix the cash register and takes some short covert naps in between. Soon enough it's ten o'clock and she takes two espresso shots before getting on her bike to head home.

Once back in her apartment, Quinn wolfs down the rest of the leftovers (heating them up this time) and spends an hour and a half squinting at her homework and getting as much of it done as she can manage. Finally she puts her notebooks and laptop away and spends several minutes just stretching, savoring the fact that she's done for the day and can finally take a needlessly bubbly bath.

She strips down to her briefs, throwing her work clothes in the dark-clothes hamper and walking into the bathroom, pointedly ignoring the mirror. She turns on the hot water tap and spills in a great deal more bath salt, oil and foam than is strictly necessary.

She peels off her briefs and turns off the tap, submerging one foot experimentally in the water. It's fragrant and warm and wonderful, washing over her skin like a familiar tune.

Unbidden and unwelcome, but not entirely unexpected, thoughts of Rachel Berry pop into her head. She thinks about the dance practice this morning, remembers the cute ballerina-style bun Rachel wore, neat and tidy except for the stray locks of hair coming loose at the bottom, caressing Rachel's neck as she danced, clinging slightly to her damp skin; the way she moved, comfortable and confident in tiny shorts, the muscles of her thighs standing out, powerful and elegant.

Quinn feels herself start to get hard. She makes the mistake of glancing down at herself, standing as she is naked in her bathroom with one leg in pinkish foamy bath water. Her fists clench involuntarily, the muscles in her arms jumping. She pulls her leg out of the water and her underwear back on.

She skips the bath. Puts on a worn shirt instead, and goes straight to bed.

* * *

Tuesday afternoon at school, Coach asks Quinn to bring some papers to the staff room before practice. The room's completely empty save for one other person, their back to Quinn, leaving something on a desk. With a jarring jolt, Quinn recognizes Rachel Berry.

Rachel turns to leave the room, and, Puck's unhelpful encouragement in the back of her mind, Quinn finds herself calling out. "Hey, uh – Rachel, wait!"

Rachel turns to face her, eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Hi," she says, looking Quinn up and down. "Uh… Lucas, right? The quarterback?"

Quinn suppresses a wince at hearing  _that_  name, spoken in Rachel's voice. "Yeah," she forces out. "I'm… that's me."

Rachel regards her expectantly, looking mildly confused. "Can I help you with something?"

"Um." Quinn chews her lip for a moment, her toes curling nervously in her shoes. She forces herself to look at Rachel and take a breath. "I love your dancing," she blurts out. "I mean, I love the way you dance. There's so much honesty in your movement, it's almost scary. You're really… really beautiful. The way you move makes me feel, um – sorry, I'm messing this up. I think you're amazing. Sorry for being a creep. Can I buy you ice cream sometime?"

Now Rachel definitely looks confused. "Ice cream?" she repeats.

"No, I mean, you're vegan, I know, we can have, um, sorbet – or, something else. That you like. If you want?"

Rachel eyes her suspiciously, frowning. "Are you asking me out?"

Quinn can feel herself flush. She rubs her bicep. She hopes she isn't sweating. She knows she probably is. "Well, um – yeah."

"On an ice cream date," Rachel states.

Quinn nods and glances down at her shoes. They look about twice as large as Rachel's. The thought makes her vaguely uncomfortable. "Sorry," she mumbles. "Forget I asked."

She sees Rachel move and feels a warm touch on her elbow. She stares at the hand lightly laid there, speechless. Rachel retracts her hand after only a brief moment, but it's enough to cause Quinn's blush to become all but fluorescent. "I like ice cream," Rachel says, smiling softly. "I know just the place."

Quinn's head snaps up to stare at her, slightly slack-jawed. She wants to ask Rachel to please repeat that, but her head's buzzing too loudly to form words.

"I'll pick you up after practice," Rachel tells her, looking almost like she's kind of smirking, slings her clunky messenger bag littered with Broadway musical pins over one shoulder, and walks out of the room.

Behind her, her face stuck somewhere between smiling and gaping, Quinn bounces on her toes excitedly several times before retreating to the bathroom to stick her head under a tap and go to practice – probably already looking as flushed and sweaty as if she's been running laps for hours.

* * *

Quinn is just in the process of getting dressed after her post-practice shower when she receives a text.

 _Hey Lucas this is Rachel,_  it says.  _Got Santana to give me your number. She was oddly reluctant._

Quinn smiles to herself. She zips up her jeans before writing a reply.  _Yeah she does that sometimes. She thinks I would embarrass her. She's mostly right._

 _That's good to know,_ Rachel texts back.  _I'm always looking for effective ways to embarrass Santana._

Quinn laughs.  _Ok I'm adding your number now,_ she writes.

_You do that. And then come outside to the parking lot. I'll be the hot girl in the beat up Sedan._

Quinn pulls on a clean sweater and her jacket and tries to quiet down the colony of butterflies in her stomach. It really would not do to sweat straight through her clothes on a casual ice cream date with the girl she's been crushing on for the past several months.

* * *

Rachel drives like she's trying to get away after stealing from the mob. Having seen the exterior of her car, Quinn is in no way surprised. Just terrified.

"R-Rachel, please slow the fuck down," she pants as Rachel swerves so sharply her wheels have probably caught fire.

"I thought you couldn't wait to go on a date with me!" Rachel shouts over the sounds of a dozen cars honking at her.

"I don't want my first date to be in a hospital!" Quinn squeaks.

"Then you'd better hang the fuck on, right?" Rachel replies, cackling.

Despite that, Rachel does slow down, and no accidents occur, and Rachel's car suffers no new injuries. They arrive at the ice cream shop unharmed, and Quinn even has time to feel anxious about something other than traffic violations.

But then Rachel climbs out of the car and walks to the passenger side to open Quinn's door for her, and Quinn forgets to be nervous for a moment.

"Very chivalrous," she comments, smiling shyly at Rachel.

Rachel grimaces. "I hate chivalry," she says. "Bunch of patriarchal bullshit."

She still pulls Quinn's chair out for her, though.

* * *

"I'm intersex," is the first thing Rachel says once they sit down with their soy-based ice creams. "I think you should know that upfront. If you have any problem with that or if you're going to be an ass about it, I suggest you pay for our ice cream and get out of my face now."

Quinn stares at her, fidgeting with her napkin, slowly disintegrating the material between her fingers. "I – I – I'm sorry," she stammers. "I'm not sure I know what that means?"

"You're not sure you know, huh?" Rachel snorts. Quinn squirms. "Well, it can mean a lot of things, but for me it mostly means my body is intolerant to androgen, so I developed a vagina, even though I have testes and XY chromosomes."

"Oh," Quinn says. She feels a little bubble of excitement pop up in her chest. "That's ama– I mean. I understand. I don't have a problem with it." Her heart hammers in her chest, but Rachel seems not to have noticed her slipup.

"Good," Rachel says, nodding. "That aside, you should know that I'm a girl. I don't want to hear nonsense like 'biologically male' from you. Body parts have no gender; only people do. I use the pronouns  _she_  and  _her_ , and I expect you to respect that. And in case you are confused, the matter-of-fact manner in which I just told you about my body does not give you permission to speak about it to anyone else. I choose who I tell. Got it?"

Quinn nods rapidly, the bubble of excitement in her chest growing with Rachel's every word. "Got it."

"Great. Let's begin our date, then, shall we?" She sticks her little yellow plastic spoon in her ice cream and folds her hands on the table. "So, Lucas," she says, businesslike. "Tell me about your exes."

Quinn just can't help smiling at that. Rachel really does like laying all the cards on the table. Except that in this case, Quinn has an empty hand. "Actually, I don't have any," she tells Rachel honestly. "This is kind of my first first date."

Rachel raises her eyebrows at her. "Really?" she exclaims. "How boring!"

Quinn giggles. There's something about Rachel's loud tactlessness that strangely puts her at ease. "Sorry."

"All right, I guess mine will have to do," Rachel concedes with a sigh. "My first serious boyfriend was Finn Hudson. You probably know him. He was our school's quarterback before you."

Quinn nods. "He quit because of a knee injury, I remember. I know some of his friends."

"Well, he was sweet enough, but we had our differences. It was a mutual break, more or less." Rachel shrugs and eats a spoonful of ice cream. "Then I dated some loser from Carmel High," she continues. "He turned out to be an enormous piece of shit. Ever since him, I tell any prospective partners about my condition in advance."

Quinn feels her heart pounding against her ribcage, making it harder to breathe. "Did he – did he –?" she chokes out. She can't quite finish.

Thankfully, Rachel shakes her head. "He didn't hurt me," she says, and Quinn bodily slumps down in relief. "Not physically, anyway. But it was pretty bad after that for a while."

"Shit. That's –" Quinn can't find the right words. She shakes her head. "I really hate this guy."

Rachel smiles at her, looking amused. "Thanks," she says. "I appreciate that. He really is a very hate-able guy."

Quinn tugs anxiously on her sweater, waiting for her heart rate to decrease. "So, that's it? He was the last guy you dated?"

Rachel smirks at that. "The last guy, yes," she agrees slyly. "After that, there was Tina."

"Oh," Quinn says. The little bubble of excitement makes itself known again.

"You might not know her; she's from band. But she's an incredible singer, and a pretty good piano player. We performed together a few times. She's very sweet, and really funny."

"So what happened?"

"We are both simply too amazing, individually," Rachel says with a shrug. "We ended up really getting on each other's nerves."

Quinn smiles at that. She kinda gets it. She thinks about Rachel's incredible fluidity of motion and the unreserved self-expression that leave her breathless just to witness, tries to pair that with the gorgeously self-assured and straightforward personality she's been discovering Rachel to have. The result is almost intimidating.

"You are amazing," she agrees softly. "Rachel, you really are amazing."

Rachel looks at her, lips slightly parted, and stays silent for a long moment. Quinn finds herself imagining leaning over the table, knocking over their half-finished, completely melted ice creams, and kissing Rachel right there.

She could never do it, of course; just the thought has her hands trembling under the table. But in this moment, there's nothing she wants more.

Then Rachel laughs, and the odd tension immediately evaporates. "Why, thank you, Lucas. I already knew that, of course, but it's always nice to hear it from the cute person who's just bought you vegan ice cream."

Rachel chugs what's left of her ice cream while Quinn draws uneven circles in hers with a spoon, fighting a blush. When she's finished, Rachel grabs Quinn by the arm and leads her to her terrifying deathtrap of a car, and Quinn can't even bring herself to be scared.

* * *

"So, where to now?" Rachel asks once they're inside the car, already stomping on the gas pedal.

"Um, I need to get to my job, actually," Qiunn tells her.

"No problem, I'll give you a lift."

"Can you… can you just give me a ride to school? I left my bike there."

"You did?!" Rachel exclaims. "Why didn't you say anything? We could've just driven separately, saved the double trip."

Quinn blushes. "I kind of… I kind of just wanted to… ride… in your car." She doesn't add that that was before she'd actually seen her drive.

Rachel gives her a sideways glance. "That's kinda hot," she says with a smirk. "All right, I'll drive you to school. But you owe me a ride on your bike."

"Okay," Quinn mumbles. "Thanks."

"So what kind of bike is it?"

"Um. A Kawasaki Ninja 250R. It's kind of a sports model."

"Ooh," says Rachel. "Sounds expensive."

"Yeah. My parents got it for my fourteenth birthday."

"Could you even ride something like that at fourteen?" Rachel asks her.

"Not legally, no." Quinn smiles tentatively. "But I looked really cool."

Rachel flashes her another smirk. "My, you're a bona fide rebel, aren't you."

Quinn just blushes harder.

"Where do you work, anyway?"

"Oh, I'm a pizza delivery g– um – I, I deliver pizzas." Quinn feels herself start to sweat at the near stumble.

"Hm. Football and AP classes  _and_  a part time job," Rachel says. "You're a hard worker, huh."

"It – It's not really –" Quinn starts.

"Well, here we are!" Rachel announces, pulling into the school's parking lot and turning to look at Quinn. "I'd better be seeing you, Lucas Fabray."

"Me – me too!" Quinn stammers and tumbles out of the car, cursing herself for her complete lack of cool.  _Me too_ , for god's sake. It doesn't even make sense within the context.

Glancing back, it looks a little bit like Rachel is leaning her forehead on the wheel, laughing her guts out.

Quinn's not entirely sure whether she should be offended or relieved.

* * *

It's after midnight by the time Quinn gets home and eats and showers, and she's caught by surprise when her phone buzzes. She looks at it and feels her heart rate pick up. She got a text from Rachel.

 _Goodnight, Lucas,_ it says.  _Don't forget the bike ride you owe me._

 _Goodnight, Rachel,_ Quinn hurriedly texts back.  _I'll remember._

She falls asleep smiling that night.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Quinn spots Rachel alone at her locker, and finds herself almost jogging up to her.

"Hey," she says, a little breathless.

Rachel turns around, and the way she smiles when she sees Quinn makes Quinn's chest feel like jelly. "Hey," she replies, leaning against her locker, still directing that blinding smile at Quinn.

"That was really – I had a really nice time yesterday," Quinn tells her earnestly.

"Yep," Rachel says, her smile turning slightly smug. "And now it's my turn. I'm taking you out Friday. So make sure you get off work by nine and wear something nice. And don't bring any money, that's rude. All right?"

Quinn stares at her. "I, um –"

Rachel raises her eyebrows. "Is that a yes?"

"That's – yes," Quinn says haltingly. "That's definitely a yes."

Rachel smiles even wider at that, winks at Quinn, and walks away, humming to herself.

Quinn's in serious trouble, she thinks, trying to rein in her blush. There just isn't a single thing about Rachel that she doesn't find incredibly attractive.

* * *

At lunch Quinn enters the cafeteria, sandwich in hand, immediately scanning the room for Sam or Puck, but finding neither. She hovers hesitantly for a second, debating whether she should join her less friendly teammates, interrupt Santana and Brittany's making-fun-of-other-people time, or just eat alone on the bleachers, when she hears Rachel calling  _that_  name.

"Lucas!" she shouts. "Come on over here, don't make me look desperate!"

Quinn's stomach performs a giddy little flip, and she wills her hands not to shake as she walks in Rachel's direction, where she sits with Mercedes Jones and a boy Quinn can't name. Rachel pats the seat next to her and Quinn sits down, smiling nervously.

"Lucas, this princess here is Mercedes Jones, from my dance group, and that nerd over there is Kurt Hummel. He's a Cheerio. Mercedes and Kurt, this is Lucas Fabray. He plays football or something."

Mercedes and Kurt look at Quinn like they know all of her secrets, and she suddenly realizes this is going to be an evaluation of sorts. A best friend compatibility test run.

Despite all efforts, she can feel her hands start to shake. She tucks them under the table and does her best to look confident.

"So, Lucas," Kurt begins, and Quinn immediately tenses, "I like your sweater."

Quinn blinks, looking down at her sweater in surprise. "Oh," she says articulately. "Thanks." She gives Kurt a probably unsubtle onceover. He's wearing light blue skinny jeans folded neatly at the bottom, a tiny anchor print shirt, and very delicate earrings, the Cheerio jacket on top a rather strange contrast. "I'm impressed you managed to balance that look with the letterman," she finds herself saying.

He sighs. "Honestly, red and white are so hard to work with. More often than not, I end up looking like a very gay Santa."

Mercedes snickers affectionately and Quinn notices Rachel is leaning her cheek on her palm, all but rolling her eyes.

"Don't mind her," Kurt assures Quinn. "She's been wearing the same horrifying combinations for so long, she's convinced herself that eventually fashion will catch up with her."

"It's only logical," Rachel insists. "There are only so many possible styles. Soon my time will come."

"The age of knee socks, miniskirts and argyle." Mercedes shudders. "I feel like crying just thinking about it."

Rachel scowls. "Lucas, back me up," she orders.

"Um – at least it probably wouldn't be as bad as breeches and corsets?" Quinn tries.

"No, I'd say it's pretty much a tossup," Mercedes says. Kurt laughs. Rachel groans.

"I hate you all," she says emphatically. "I'd storm off if I didn't really wanna finish this waffle."

Quinn smiles softly. Talking to Rachel and her friends suddenly seems so much less intimidating.

* * *

On her way out of the cafeteria, Quinn hears her name being called.

"Hey, Fabray! Over here, you fucking lump." She turns around to find Santana glaring up at her. "So," Santana says. "I hear you got your ugly paws on Berry. Lemme just warn you. She's an irritating little troll, she'll annoy you to death. And if you ever hurt her, I will fucking bury you under the bleachers and grow weed on your remains."

Quinn smiles. The thing about Santana, she doesn't treat Quinn like a boy. She just treats her like an asshole.

And she never calls her Lucas.

"I'll keep that in mind," Quinn says. "Thanks, Santana."

Santana shrugs. "Sure. You up for dinner Saturday? Mom's been asking."

Quinn looks away uncomfortably. "I don't know. I have to work."

"What the fuck? Come after!" She jabs her finger at Quinn's stomach, and smirks when Quinn stumbles back a step. "Be honest, when's the last time you ate cooked fucking food."

"I cook!" Quinn protests.

Santana snorts derisively. "Just come. We start dinner at seven, but whatever, come later, we'll fucking save you a plate." She walks away, shaking her head and muttering to herself. " _Has to work_. Fucking pizza delivery, fuck's sake."

* * *

Friday night arrives all too quickly, and Quinn finds herself chewing up her nails in front of the closet, unable to decide what to wear. For a moment, her eyes drift to the secret cardboard box at the back of her closet, but she immediately looks away. In the end she settles for her favorite jeans and a button down, and wears a bit of her rarely used perfume.

She spends a few more minutes scrutinizing a zit in her mirror before giving up on making it disappear through sheer force of will. She's still not brave enough to use any makeup.

Her phone buzzes and she takes several deep breaths to calm herself down, pulls on her jacket, locks up her apartment, and walks out onto the street.

In less than a minute, Rachel's car pulls up in front of her. "Ooh, you're quick!" Rachel greets her as she climbs in.

"So are you. I'm glad you could find this place okay."

Rachel shrugs. "It's not thanks to any navigation skill on my part. I just used Waze."

Quinn nods and buckles in extra tight. Just in case. "So, where are we going?" she asks.

Rachel smiles wryly. "Dinner and a show," she says enigmatically, almost at the same time as her phone says " _Destination: Breadstix. In five hundred yards, turn right_."

Quinn raises an eyebrow. "Breadstix?" she repeats. " _Really_?"

Rachel cackles. "Don't underestimate the power of unlimited oblong pieces of toasted bread, Lucas Fabray."

Within fifteen minutes they're parking near the restaurant, and Quinn follows Rachel inside, skeptical but intrigued.

"Can I show you to a table?" a waitress asks them with a smile.

"No, thank you!" Rachel answers cheerfully, and leads Quinn to the back, near the kitchen. Quinn eyes her suspiciously as she hands a staff member two tickets, and he unlocks a door for them.

They go down a flight of stairs patterned with trampled chewing gum probably accumulated over multiple generations, and walk into what seems to be a fluorescent-lit storage room, which is inexplicably filled with people sitting around bright foldable lunch tables on uniform black plastic chairs. There's a raised stage in one end of the room, complete with loudspeakers and mikes, on which two boys with very unattractive hair are currently reciting some kind of text.

Quinn takes a moment to gawk. "What… is this?" she asks Rachel.

Rachel smiles at her very smugly. "Breadstix' biweekly amateur juggling, poetry reading and karaoke night," she says.

"How did I not know this exists?"

"Probably because you're a boring preppy jock while I am a sensitive performer with an appreciation for fine art," Rachel informs her, waving a dismissive hand. "Come on, this is the best entertainment you can find in Lima. And there's an open bar."

"There's an open bar?" Quinn repeats, somewhat skeptical.

"Well, there's a table with some vodka and redbulls, and it's technically covered by the admission fee, but what's the difference. Hold on, I'm gonna go get us some chips from the vending machine."

Quinn is left alone in the midst of the many spectators and possibly some of the amateur jugglers. Some of them glance at her, but most are too busy with their friends or their prep sheets or their cheap drinks. There are quite a few unfortunate choices of headwear around and even some bowties, and it's altogether just too silly for Quinn to feel very nervous. "Dinner and a show, huh," she mutters to herself, smiling.

Rachel returns with an armful of vending machine snacks and drags Quinn to a table near the wall. The view of the stage isn't ideal, but on the bright side there is no vomit on the tabletop.

"I don't know those two," Rachel says, waving a Cheetos-filled fist in the direction of the greasy-haired kids currently onstage, "but there's this one guy who shows up every single time and reads Virginia Woolf. ' _This is my newest original poem_ ,' he says. ' _It's called_   _Melancholy of the Guacamole Free Burrito_.'"

Quinn snorts and grabs some of Rachel's Cheetos. "You're making that up," she accuses.

"Nope! He'll show up eventually. He likes to wear pastel colored skinny jeans. You'll see."

The pastel-colored plagiarist does show, and he does recite rearranged snippets of Woolf's writing, under titles such as  _Tinder is an Endless Pit of Loneliness_ and  _If I Could Acid Wash My Own Jeans_. After him there's another man in his twenties with a droning voice and a very long poem, and then a young girl, probably early teens, looking very nervous. She reads her two poems quietly, a little too close to the mike, her hands slightly shaking, causing the pages in her grip to crinkle audibly. When she's done, Quinn stands up, clapping as loudly as she can, and the room quickly joins her. The kid leaves the stage with a smile.

Quinn turns back to the table to find Rachel smirking at her.

"What?" she asks, turning over a Cheeto between her fingers.

"Nothing," Rachel replies, still smirking, and points lazily to the stage. "Karaoke's up next. You up for a duet?"

Quinn fidgets, dropping the Cheeto. "Oh, I – I don't really sing," she stammers.

Rachel cackles, snatching Quinn's dropped Cheeto and biting it in half. "That's okay!" she says cheerfully. "I'm amazing enough for the both of us!"

She drags Quinn to the stage as a projector is turned on and the opening notes of a pop song start playing. Rachel immediately starts belting out the words, her voice as confident and fluid as every one of her motions. Quinn bites the inside of her mouth, wishing she could sing so easily and openly, wishing she didn't dislike so much about her voice. But Rachel keeps her fingers laced in Quinn's, and some of the audience has already started cheering, and without really making a conscious decision, Quinn finds herself joining Rachel in song. Rachel glances at her, smiling around the words, and bumps her hips into her playfully.

Quinn sings, and, amazingly, enjoys it.

They finish and walk off the stage to a round of fairly enthusiastic applause, and Rachel squeezes Quinn's hand harder and looks at her like she's the only person in the room, and Quinn feels like her entire being could explode in a burst of confetti at every moment.

"Lucas, you're too fucking tall. Bend down," Rachel commands, and Quinn hesitantly obliges. Rachel curls a warm hand around Quinn's jaw, stroking her neck briefly, looks straight into Quinn's eyes for one breathtaking moment, and presses a lingering kiss at the corner of Quinn's mouth.

"That's for being a decent date and a surprisingly passable singer," Rachel says, removing her hand from Quinn's face with a subtle caress and smiling playfully. "Come on, I'll drive you home."

Quinn straightens back up, covering her slowly developing smile with a hand. Rachel starts walking, and Quinn is helpless to do anything but follow. She can feel the heady warmth of Rachel's lips all the way down to her toes.

* * *

Even once she's alone in her apartment, Quinn can't quite calm herself down. She washes all the dishes in the sink, including the annoying ones like the garlic press, cleans out her fridge, and tries to read some of the history chapters they were assigned in an attempt to tire herself into calmness.

Eventually she gives up and sends Rachel a probably overly gushy text thanking her for the date and wishing her goodnight, and replays their kiss over and over in her head.

She falls asleep hugging her pillow, and dreams of Rachel.

* * *

Dinner at Santana's the next day is a very warm sort of stressful. Quinn's late, because she really has to pass through her apartment to change out of her work clothes and spend longer than necessary deciding what to wear. Santana's family has been there for her for a rather long time, but she still hasn't gotten over the urge to try to make a good impression.

Santana opens the door with a scowl, of course, and then hugs Quinn so hard she suspects it was meant to be painful.

"It's ten fucking thirty," she scolds. "You just spent an hour primping, didn't you."

"Sorry," Quinn tells her, trying not to look sheepish.

Santana tuts. "Plate's in the microwave," she says dismissively. "We're watching documentaries. You can join us as long as you don't dribble food all over yourself."

Quinn retrieves her overflowing plate from the microwave, smiling goofily when she notices the bacon. She sits next to Santana and her mom on the couch, and manages not to drop anything edible on anyone. They watch a documentary about jellyfish and Quinn sneaks off to do the dishes.

Santana's mom asks about Quinn's parents, and Quinn squirms for a moment before Santana comes to her rescue with the assertion that they're both still ugly pieces of shit who should've never been allowed to have children. Maribel clucks disapprovingly before informing Quinn again that she's welcome at the Lopez household anytime.

"No kid should have to eat instant noodles for dinner before college," she says sternly.

Quinn really, really likes Santana's family.

* * *

It's been almost two weeks since Rachel and Quinn's Breadstix date, and they've been texting constantly and spending most of their lunchtimes together. Quinn can barely concentrate on anything, her thoughts consumed with Rachel, sometimes finding herself smiling for no reason at all.

Today football practice has been cancelled and Quinn's taken a rare day off work. She heads home early, thinking she could catch up on some sleep, when she sees Rachel sitting on the low stone fence near the main gate, looking gloomy.

Quinn approaches her cautiously. She's never seen Rachel look so unhappy. "Hey," she says softly, "what's wrong?"

Rachel glances at her and sighs. "Nothing much," she says. "Just had a fight with my dads, and I'm totally exhausted, but I don't feel like going home. Or anywhere, really. I'm so sick of parents." She shakes her head and smiles apologetically at Quinn. "Sorry for venting on you."

"No, it's okay." Quinn sits down next to her and drops her backpack to the ground. Rachel leans into her and hugs her arm. Impulsively, Quinn says, "Do you, um – do you wanna go to my place? You could crash on my couch. I'm the only one who lives there, so."

Rachel lifts her head at that. "You live alone?" she asks, looking startled.

"Yeah," Quinn confirms quietly and looks away, embarrassed. "My, uh, my parents and I don't really get along so well." Her leg starts bouncing up and down a little, a familiar nervous habit. "They pay for the apartment," she explains. "I just use the pay from my job to take care of food and electricity and stuff."

Rachel frowns. "Oh. I didn't know that. I'm sorry."

"Um – there's really nothing to apologize for," Quinn tells her, trying to smile reassuringly, but probably just looking nervous. "Do you… do you want to? Come to my place, I mean?"

"I don't know," Rachel says, wrinkling her nose. "Just how teenage boy is it? On a lost-my-sense-of-smell-just-by-taking-a-breath to breathable-but-with-underwear-on-every-horizontal-surface scale."

"Um… the some-dishes-in-the-sink-but-just-washed-the-floors-day-before-yesterday kind?"

"Hmm," Rachel says, deliberating. Finally, she nods resolutely. "Good enough. Let's go."

* * *

They take Quinn's bike this time. Quinn helps Rachel put on her helmet and directs her to hold onto the bike itself rather than Quinn.

"I know it's a romantic cliché," she explains, "but it's actually much safer like this."

Rachel looks a little disappointed, but complies. As soon as they pick up speed, though, Quinn hears her start laughing excitedly. She chances a glance and is not disappointed by the pure joy on Rachel's face. Rachel really likes fast, dangerous things. The more accident-prone, the better, probably.

"This is great!" she shouts over the wind. "Can I hire you as a personal driver?"

Quinn laughs and makes a purposely sharp turn. Rachel hoots.

By the time they reach Quinn's home, Quinn's hair is standing on end and Rachel looks happier than she'd ever seen her. They walk into the apartment holding hands, and Quinn feel like she's walking on air.

When Quinn moves to let go of Rachel's hand so she can take off her shoes and go get them some snacks, Rachel stops her with a hand on her arm.

"Hey, I wanna kiss you," she says, smirking up at Quinn. "What do you say?"

Quinn wants to answer her, preferably with something at least halfway eloquent, but she can't. There's a lump in her throat the size of her heart, and speaking just isn't an option. So she just nods jerkily and bends down and closes her eyes and waits, like the big pathetic coward she is.

For a moment, nothing happens, and Quinn knows she's screwed this up. She tries to straighten up and step back – but then there's a hand cupping the back of her neck and a hand on her chest, a hot breath against her mouth, and lips, Rachel's lips, and Rachel is kissing her,  _Rachel Berry_  is  _kissing_  her, lips and tongue and teeth and all, and everything is beautiful. Quinn instinctively places her hands on Rachel's waist, and holds on.

Even if everything is spinning, she has an anchor.

The second Rachel lets go, though, the dizziness hits her all at once. She takes an unsteady step back and plops unceremoniously down to the floor.

"Wow," she breathes, lightheaded and downright euphoric, brushing her knuckles over her lips, marveling.

Rachel looks down at her intently, tapping her own lips with her fingers. "Hey, don't take this the wrong way, but," she says slowly, "was that your first kiss?"

Quinn makes a weird little humming noise in the back of her throat. "Pretty much, yeah," she confirms, glancing sideways at the floor. "Was it really terrible? Sorry."

Rachel shakes her head. "It wasn't terrible at all. Just… really sincere. I'm not used to it." She crouches down in front of Quinn. "It's a good thing," she asserts.

Quinn smiles at her, uncertain but hopeful. "Yeah?"

"Yes."

Quinn swallows, fidgeting with her shoelaces. "So, do you think we could… um, do it again, maybe?"

Rachel doesn't bother to reply to that; she smirks, and lowers her eyelids halfway in this incredibly cute and appealing way, and then she's kissing Quinn again, just like that, and Quinn never knew this could be so easy. Rachel's kissing her, because she asked. She's kissing her, because she wants to.

Quinn impulsively folds an arm around Rachel's waist, and Rachel brushes her fingertips over Quinn's cheek and along her jaw. Quinn hopes to god that she shaved properly this morning, that there's no noticeable stubble. But then a tongue brushes past her lips, and all her insecurities disappear, along with conscious thought, and there is only Rachel's warm hand cupping the back of her neck and Rachel's warm mouth moving against hers in this slow and bewildering rhythm.

They kiss long enough for Quinn to lose her breath and find it again. At some point, Rachel tugs Quinn's shirt over her head and runs her fingers over her chest, playing with the sparse hairs there, and Quinn is too lost in Rachel to be scared. She tilts her head, deepening their kiss, running her hand up Rachel's back, gently cupping the back of her head.

"Lucas," Rachel murmurs, dragging her palm down Quinn's stomach to settle on her hip, uncomfortably close to her crotch. Quinn's breath hitches unpleasantly, her stomach suddenly heavy with uncertainty.

"W-wait," Quinn stammers, taking hold of Rachel's wrist and gently removing her hand from her body. "I don't – I'm not ready for that." She's painfully aware of the bulge in her pants that would seem to suggest otherwise. She bites her lip, hoping Rachel hasn't noticed.

Rachel frowns, but scoots back, giving Quinn some breathing space. "Is it because of my body?" she asks frankly. Always frankly.

"No," Quinn tells her, just as honest. "Because of  _mine_."

She immediately panics at her own recklessness, but Rachel doesn't follow up with any questions. She just nods, pushes herself up, and walks to Quinn's game console, unerringly fishing out Mario Kart and putting it in.

"Um," Quinn says uncertainly. Rachel glances at her.

"I think you owe me a humiliating defeat or two," Rachel tells her. "Don't you?"

* * *

Rachel wins three times in a row. Quinn should've expected that, really. They watch a random thriller movie after that, and Rachel curls up against Quinn, making her feel like the luckiest girl in existence.

Quinn makes an assortment of random side dishes in an attempt at an acceptable vegan dinner, and Rachel complains about her dads while Quinn tries her best to be supportive while keeping all thoughts away from the subject of parents.

She lends Rachel her smallest sweats to sleep in, trying not to laugh at how silly and adorable Rachel looks in rolled up track pants and a ridiculously oversized shirt.

"Sorry for making you sleep on the couch," she tells Rachel apologetically.

"Well, I did come here expecting to get laid, but I guess you're forgiven." Rachel smirks at Quinn's immediate blush, and kisses her on the nose. "No, I'm just teasing you. I had fun," she says, tracing Quinn's hairline with a fingertip.

Quinn nods mutely, struggling to breathe evenly, and escapes to her room. It takes her a while to fall asleep that night.

* * *

In the morning, Quinn wakes up to find Rachel brushing her teeth in her tiny bathroom, her hair a gorgeous, tangled mess, her bare feet tapping to some soundless tune.

"Hey," Quinn greets her softly.

Rachel turns to look at her, giving her an utterly adorable, foamy smile.

Quinn briefly bites her lip. "Sorry, can you spit out your toothpaste for a second?" she asks.

Rachel eyes her suspiciously. "Why?" she asks around a mouthful of toothbrush.

"Because I wanna kiss you," Quinn answers honestly.

Rachel hmphs, spattering toothpaste on the mirror. "No way," she says. "You're not cute enough to kiss with morning breath."

Quinn laughs and squeezes a ridiculous amount of toothpaste onto her own toothbrush. If Rachel wants minty fresh, she's gonna give her minty fresh.

They start an unspoken tooth brushing competition. When Rachel inevitably wins, she pushes Quinn onto the edge of the bathtub and kisses her senseless. She tastes like peppermint and Quinn's most secret dreams.

* * *

Quinn can't really lend Rachel any of her clothes; they're all several sizes too big. A pair of her boxers reaches all the way down to Rachel's knees. Rachel doesn't seem particularly excited about going to school in yesterday's clothes, either, of course, and Quinn experiences a moment of careless bravery.

"Wait here," she instructs Rachel, and dashes into her room, reaching behind a curtain of button-ups for the secret cardboard box in her closet.

She returns to the living room with a mess of thin, twisting wires coiled tight inside her chest, and hands Rachel a pretty white dress patterned with tiny yellow flowers, a twitch in her smile.

"It's, um – it was my sister's," she lies. "She left it here when she last came to visit." Frannie has never even seen Quinn's apartment.

Rachel accepts the dress, looks at Quinn almost appraisingly for a brief moment, making the wires in Quinn's chest snag on her flesh. Too late, Quinn notices the price tag still attached to the dress by its flimsy little plastic bolt.

But then Rachel simply smiles. "I didn't know you had a sister," she says conversationally. "What's her name? Do you have any other siblings?"

"Frannie," Quinn answers. "She's the eldest. It's only the two of us. You?"

Rachel shakes her head. "Only child," she says. "But I've always wanted a sister."

"They're, um, they can be overrated," Quinn mumbles self-consciously.

Rachel nods, but doesn't comment.

The dress fits fine, more or less, but it isn't exactly very flattering. "It's not your color," Quinn concludes.

Rachel huffs. "I'm not taking any fashion advice from you. You're wearing  _Crocs_."

"They make really comfortable flip flops," Quinn defends herself. "Besides, I'm not wearing them  _outside_."

Rachel snorts. "I'm totally telling on you to Kurt," she informs her smugly.

* * *

As they step through the school gates, Rachel threads her fingers in Quinn's. They're greeted with numerous curious glances, and Quinn pointedly fixes her gaze on an indistinct point in the distance, trying to ignore the heat in her cheeks.

Rachel finally lets go of Quinn's hand once they reach her first period classroom. "Ooh, we got a lot of stares," Rachel says, laughing. "I should've started showing you off sooner."

Quinn chokes out something completely incoherent in response and makes her retreat. She's pretty sure that if Rachel kisses her right now, she'll physically melt.

Puck corners her outside the biology lab.

"Dude, Rachel Berry!" he says excitedly.

She smiles fondly. "Yeah."

"Rachel Berry, dude!"

"Rachel Berry, yeah," she repeats, frowning.

"Rachel Berry, though!"

Quinn sighs. Puck is undeterred.

"Little Luke finally found his balls and got himself a hot date." He smiles smugly. "Not as hot as Santana, though. Who I totally slept with that one time."

Quinn feels a muscle jump in her jaw. Puck can be so awful sometimes. "Shut the fuck up, Puck."

To his credit, he seems to realize it, too. "Yeah, okay," he agrees sheepishly.

* * *

What with football practice, dance meets, AP classes and Quinn's job, Rachel and Quinn's schedules hardly ever match up. Aside from the occasional corridor conversation, lunchtime flirting and late night texting, they don't get to spend much time together. It makes bumping into Rachel at school an invariable thrill, but it's not enough.

At lunchtime one Wednesday, instead of joining Quinn at the table, Rachel pushes her bacon sandwich away and grabs her arm.

"Lucas, come with me," she says imperiously.

"What about my lunch?" Quinn asks as Rachel briskly leads her away from the cafeteria.

"This is more important."

"I need my calories," Quinn protests grumpily, but Rachel just rolls her eyes at her and pulls her by the shirt into an empty classroom, then promptly pulls her down and proceeds to sit in her lap and start sucking on her lip, hands fisting in her hair.

Quinn struggles to keep up, securing one hand on Rachel's hip and allowing the other to run over her back. Rachel lifts herself up in her lap, tugging on Quinn's hair and moving her entire body in time with the kiss. Quinn fists her hand in her shirt and groans loudly, and Rachel kisses her even more urgently for a few more moments before giving her lower lip one last nip and pulling away.

"Wow," Quinn breathes, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear the spots from her vision.

"Yep," Rachel agrees, smiling smugly. "Worth the bacon sandwich?"

Quinn nods vigorously. "Every bite."

"Good," Rachel sighs, laying her head on Quinn's chest and nuzzling in a little. "I fucking miss you."

"Me too," Quinn says, wrapping her arms around Rachel's shoulders, holding her close. "Um, Rachel," she adds, suddenly remembering. "Do you think it'd be okay if I, um, come watch you dance sometimes?"

Rachel looks up at her for a moment, and bursts out laughing. "Would it be okay, he asks. Yes, it'd be okay! Of course it'd be okay! Come admire my unparalleled talent anytime," she tells Quinn emphatically.

Quinn smiles gently at her. "Okay," she says.

"Besides, according to Santana, you've been secretly doing it anyway," Rachel adds wryly.

Quinn bites her lips and says nothing. Fortunately, Rachel appears to be altogether too comfortable to tease her about it at the moment.

* * *

Quinn starts attending Rachel's rehearsals whenever she has the time. She no longer has to utilize oversized textbooks in a sad attempt at stealth, but she still has to sit with a fist pressed against her lips to avoid accidentally getting up and cheering loudly.

Santana keeps glaring menacingly at her, but Quinn just can bring herself to care when every time Rachel happens to glance her way, she smiles like having Quinn there is all she's ever needed.

* * *

"Hey, Lucas," Rachel says one morning after practice when they're walking through the hallway together. "There's something I've been wanting to try. Can you pick me up and put me on your shoulders?"

"W-what?" Quinn stammers, staring at her.

"Come on, don't be a prude," Rachel tells her. "Pick me up and put me on your shoulders. I wanna be taller than everyone else."

Of all the things Quinn had imagined Rachel could say, this is by far the silliest.

"Well?" Rachel prompts, frowning at Quinn in a way that's somewhere between adorable and terrifying.

And so, Quinn crouches down, and lets Rachel climb onto her shoulders, and slowly stands back up again. Rachel makes a noise of excitement, grips one hand in Quinn's hair and presses the other to the side of Quinn's face, making her flush. But Rachel probably doesn't notice; she's busy looking around and laughing triumphantly. Eventually she lets go of Quinn's hair to stretch her hand up, trying to touch the ceiling, though she still can't reach, so she starts waving cheerfully to bewildered passersby instead.

Quinn takes hold of Rachel's calves and starts walking through the hallways towards Rachel's first class, smiling to herself at the smug cackling issuing from above her.

"What the  _fuck_  are you doing, Berry," Santana demands, suddenly popping out of nowhere, probably summoned by her keen sense of embarrassing shit.

"I'm living out my power fantasy!" Rachel declares boisterously.

"You're humiliating yourself and me and my  _entire_  social circle by extension," Santana accuses.

"I don't have to listen to you! I can see your scalp!"

Santana turns her glare on Quinn. "I'm holding you accountable for this," she warns.

Quinn just shrugs, causing Rachel to jostle and laugh delightedly. "Onwards, trusty steed!" she commands, and Quinn walks on, throwing an apologetic smile Santana's way, which Santana returns with a truly magnificent scowl.

Quinn gives Rachel a ride to all her classes that day. They get a lot of stares and Rachel bangs her head against a couple of doorframes, but her smug smile of satisfaction holds fast all through the day, and it makes Quinn's stomach perform triple somersaults. Making Rachel happy is fast becoming her favorite pastime. Even if Rachel's taste in happiness is just ever so slightly absurd.

* * *

They go jogging together early Saturday morning before Quinn has to go to work. Rachel's wearing very short shorts and a cut off shirt that keeps sliding off her shoulder, and even though Quinn is a very fast runner, she finds herself struggling to keep up. Partly because Rachel is in incredible shape, and partly because Quinn just can't stop staring.

After working up a rather large amount of sweat and somehow getting into a water fight, they go to the Lima Bean and order a couple of iced coffees. The waiter directs them to the most isolated table in the corner, obviously trying very hard not to wrinkle his nose at them.

"Lucas, listen," Rachel says once they settle down with their drinks, sounding serious and uncharacteristically hesitant. "Would you be willing to meet my dads?"

Quinn freezes, the straw halfway to her mouth. "I –" she starts, and can't seem to continue, her words stuck in her throat.

Rachel strokes the back of Quinn's hand, grimacing sympathetically. "I know, we've only been dating for like a month, and my dads are the most aggravating people, and these situations probably make you uncomfortable?"

Quinn can only frown helplessly at her, reluctant to admit she's right, unable to produce a convincing excuse.

Rachel chuckles softly. "I get it, okay? Don't look so guilty. I have gotten to know you a little, you know. I know this isn't exactly within your comfort zone. But they've been bugging me for a while. They really want to meet you. I guess it's partially my fault for talking about you constantly."

Quinn finally manages to swallow the lump in her throat. "You talk about me?" she asks, slightly awed. "To your parents?"

Rachel raises her eyebrows at her, smirking. "Constantly, yes, as I've said," she confirms easily. "I happen to like you quite a bit, Lucas Fabray."

Quinn feels something in her chest clench uncomfortably at the same time as an exhilarating warmth spreads through it. She rubs the heel of her palm over it. She doesn't think she can keep doing this much longer. Listening to Rachel say everything she's ever wanted to hear, using a name that isn't, and has never been, hers.

"Okay," Quinn says finally, on the exhale of a shaky breath. "I'm – I will meet your dads, if you want. But there's something – um. Can you come over tomorrow? I don't have work this Sunday. I need to –" she cuts herself short again, gritting her teeth in frustration. She's not even really saying anything, so why is this so hard? "Just – come. Please. If you still want me to meet your dads, after, I will. If – if that's okay?"

Rachel eyes her narrowly, but there's no accusation in her gaze. Maybe something softer. Maybe something like concern. "Of course that's okay," she says firmly. "You don't have to have dinner with my dads if you don't want to, okay? But of course I'll come over. And you can tell me whatever you –" She seems to reconsider, and purses her lips. "Of course I'll come."

* * *

Quinn starts pacing nervously an hour before Rachel is supposed to arrive, which turns out to be a smart decision, because Rachel is fifteen minutes early. At least she still managed to clock in about forty five solid minutes of anxiety.

She silently leads Rachel to the kitchen and hands her a glass of iced tea without a word. She knows the moment she starts talking, she's not going to be able to take it back. She feels sweat trickle down her back and along the sides of her body, but luckily she isn't shaking.

Rachel sips her tea, looking serious but surprisingly at ease, and Quinn looks at her warm, steady eyes and takes a shaky breath.

"If I told you – if I told you I'm really a girl, and my name is actually – my name's actually Quinn," Quinn starts, and can't finish. Can't say,  _What would you do, then?_  Can't bear to see Rachel take a step back, can't bear to witness the shock and veiled distaste on her face, can't bear to hear her say that that's good, that's great, that they'll always be friends, but maybe they shouldn't see each other anymore.

And Rachel frowns, but only for a moment, a moment that seems eternal and passes much too quickly, and then she isn't frowning; then she's smirking,  _smirking_  and raising an eyebrow, maybe a question, almost a challenge. "Then I'd probably say I definitely have the cutest girlfriend in Ohio," she says forcefully, grabbing Quinn's hand. "And I'd tell her that I'm so honored that she trusted me enough to tell me." She runs her thumb over the skin of Quinn's palm, repetitive and insistent and shockingly soothing. "And I'd help and support her in any decision she might want to make." She playfully nudges Quinn's knee. "And I'd ask her if she thought her bisexual, intersex queen of a girlfriend would be anything less than completely ecstatic."

Quinn might be crying, but she can't say for certain; she can't quite feel her body. "You're not –?" she starts haltingly.

"I'm not," Rachel confirms softly.

"Really?"

"Really."

" _Why?_ "

"Because," Rachel says, looking very serious, "you are beautiful and interesting and cute and really kind of charming, and because I really, really, really like you, and because, even if you weren't, and even if I didn't, you'd still have deserved the basic fucking right of determining your own fucking gender, and it always would've been nothing short of absolutely admirable."

Quinn can only stare, speechless, shaking, and utterly numb with relief.

Rachel smiles at her teasingly. "I would never have pegged you for a  _Quinn_ , though. Maybe more of a Lucy."

Quinn shakes her head and sniffles. Oh. So she really is crying. "Too similar to my – to the name my parents picked."

"So why Quinn?"

"I like it," Quinn admits. "It sounds kinda… regal. Like I could be some Celtic hero or something."

Rachel snorts. "My girlfriend is a dork," she declares. "Not that I didn't know that already."

Quinn smiles and wipes her eyes roughly with the back of her hand. "I like hearing you say it," she says.

"What? That you're a dork?"

Quinn shakes her head. "No," she says thickly. "That I'm your girlfriend."

Rachel pulls Quinn onto her and cuddles her close. Quinn wraps her arms around Rachel's midsection, shifting her weight to avoid crushing Rachel, and buries her face in Rachel's neck. "That's good," Rachel says happily. "Because I really like saying it."

"Thank you," Quinn whispers, murmuring the words against Rachel's skin with trembling lips. "Rachel. I think I'm in –"

"Quinn," Rachel interrupts her, and Quinn immediately loses her voice. Rachel calling her name has stolen the breath clear from her lungs. "Don't finish that sentence."

The sudden sting of rejection threatens to overwhelm the immense relief and excitement from before. "Why?" Quinn asks, her voice surprisingly steady.

Rachel laughs softly and maneuvers the two of them so they're face to face. "Quinn," Rachel says again, sending a pleasant thrill through her, despite her anxiety. "I just now learned your name. As your girlfriend, that's pretty unacceptable, you know? Hey, Quinn." Quinn is pretty sure Rachel is doing it on purpose by now. The smirk on her face is a pretty good indication. "I'd like to get to know you," Rachel states, tenderly tracing the planes of Quinn's cheek. "Would that be okay?"

Quinn grits her teeth and nods intently, feeling tears rolling down her cheeks again. She's in love with Rachel Berry. She's rarely been so sure of anything in her life. And she loves her even more for being willing to wait.

Rachel grimaces suddenly. "Ugh, remember our first date?" she says. "I grilled you so hard."

Quinn chuckles. "Yeah. You were pretty terrifying."

"Well, in my defense, I had no reason to suspect you were anything but a douchey white cis boy," Rachel says with a crooked smile. "Little did I know you were a dorky white trans girl all along."

"Yeah," Quinn says, smiling a little uncertainly. "Are you disappointed?"

Rachel snorts dismissively. "Are you kidding? My only regret is not being the one to hit on you first. The fluster potential is endless. You blush so easily. I could've turned you into a human tomato."

Quinn feels her face heat up.  _Dammit_.

Rachel smirks. "I guess I still can," she says wryly, and trails a fingertip lightly down Quinn's throat to her collarbone, stopping right above the muscles of her chest. Quinn breathes heavily, closing her eyes. Her body is just the same as it's always been, but it feels different when Rachel touches her, now – now that she knows she's touching  _Quinn_ , and not Lucas.

Slowly, Quinn reopens her eyes and leans forward, gently capturing Rachel's lips with her own. And Rachel kisses her back, slowly and lightly and completely without hesitation or reserve.

Quinn had never thought that this could be possible, that this could be reachable for her. That she could be kissing the person she loves like this, and be recognized for who she is, and accepted for it as well. And yet she is. She is, and it feels almost too overwhelming to bear, and too wonderful to wish for it to stop.

They break the kiss so slowly it hardly feels like letting go.

"Do you – do you still want me to meet your dads?" Quinn asks Rachel, looking at her searchingly.

"Yes!" Rachel immediately replies. "Uh – but only if you're comfortable with that," she amends. "We don't have to do it yet. Or ever."

Quinn nods. "Would it, um, would it be okay if I – if I met them as Quinn?"

Rachel's face breaks out in a grin. "That would be perfect," she says, casually caressing the inside of Quinn's palm with her fingertips. "There's nothing I'd love more than introducing my dads to my adorable girlfriend."

Quinn turns over her palm to capture Rachel's hand, pressing it reverently to her lips, kissing just above the wrist. "Okay," she murmurs, feeling tears caught in her throat again. "I think I – actually, I think I'd love that too."

And Rachel smiles, and wraps Quinn in a tight hug, and holds her, and rubs her nose in her hair a little, and things that are terrifying feel like nothing at all inside the space within Rachel's arms.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to several requests, and also because I really wanted to, I've written Quinn meeting Rachel's dads. But! At the moment I don't have plans to make this an ongoing story, because I just don't have time. Please consider this a (super fluffy) bonus chapter.
> 
> **Warnings:** dysphoria, mentions of medical abuse.

Quinn tucks her hair, which reaches almost to her shoulders now, behind her ears and out of her face, fiddling with it a little self-consciously. Looking in mirrors has been getting gradually less horrible, but at the moment, faced with the prospect of a  _real_  introduction – honestly, her first – she can't help feeling insecure.

Warm, steady fingers trail up her sides, over her shoulders and along her arms to take hold of her hands and draw them away from her hair.

"Quinn," Rachel whispers to her, probably standing on tiptoe to be able to rest her cheek on Quinn's shoulder as she is, her breath tickling the skin of Quinn's neck, "you're beautiful and strong and motherfucking wonderful. I thought you should know."

Quinn squeezes Rachel's hand, takes a deep breath and turns around, smoothing down her dark purple skater skirt. Rachel hurriedly kicks away the small stool she'd obviously been standing on. Quinn laughs.

"Next time I'm wearing heels," Rachel says with a smirk.

Quinn leans down and closes her eyes, and Rachel immediately rushes up to meet her halfway, one hand fisting in her hair, untucking it from behind her ear again. Quinn cups Rachel's jaw in her palm, and they kiss, lightly and sweetly and endlessly, until Rachel's phone gives a loud chirp.

Rachel lightly drags her teeth over Quinn's bottom lip as she lets go. "My dads are being vaguely passive aggressive," she says with a sigh, looking at her phone. "We'd better get going."

Quinn nods jerkily, slowly regulating her breath into a reasonable rhythm and valiantly resisting the urge to keep fidgeting with her hair until it all falls off.

"Are you ready?" Rachel asks her, looking at her searchingly, and Quinn knows there's nothing perfunctory in the question. "Just say the word and I'm calling it off."

Quinn grips Rachel's hand firmly, running her thumb over her multicolored fingernails. "I'm ready," she says with her best attempt at a steady smile. "Let's go meet the Berries."

* * *

The first time she'd agreed to let Rachel take her shopping, she was so anxious she felt ready to throw up at any moment.

"I really can't do it," she told Rachel, twisting a corner of her shirt in her hands.

"Quinn,  _none_  of the dresses you own are remotely your size," Rachel accused. "It is your duty as my girlfriend to let me make you all pretty." After one look at Quinn's face, though, which was probably some distressing shade of green, she softened. "Hey. You don't have to come with me. I can shop for you by myself, if you want."

Quinn shuddered at the thought of what Rachel might buy for her if left to her own devices. "No offence, Rachel," she said delicately, "but  _absolutely not_."

So they rode out of town on Quinn's bike, found a big, impersonal mall, and walked into all the big stores, the ones that had changing booths with mirrors inside and no helpful clerks to ask questions. Rachel kept her fingers laced in Quinn's, and Quinn held on, and it was fine.

The first dress she chose was light blue and soft and stretchy, and looked like it might actually fit. Rachel helped her pull it on over the sports bra she didn't actually need yet and her neon green bicycle shorts. Once it was settled, Rachel beamed at her, smoothing her palms over her waist, and Quinn gathered her courage and turned to face the mirror.

It looked…  _nice_. It wasn't ugly, or strange, or terrifyingly  _wrong_ like she'd feared. Her shoulders were still broad, and her chest was still flat, and a vague hint of stubble was still visible if she squinted. But it looked nice. It looked right. It looked like somebody she could  _be_.

She turned back to Rachel to see her rubbing vigorously at her eyes, her smile slightly tremulous.

"Hey, Rach," she prodded gently.

Rachel gave a sharp laugh and drew her hands away from her eyes. "Sorry, sorry," she said. Her eyelashes were moist. "You're fucking gorgeous, that's all."

Quinn felt a sting in her own throat, and she brushed her fingertips over Rachel's shoulder and ran her hand down her arm and coaxed her into a hug, crouching down to bury her face in the crook between Rachel's neck and shoulder and frowning against her skin. Rachel sniffled a little and wrapped her arms around Quinn's waist, fisting her hands in the blue dress, the blue dress that  _fit_ , that was pretty and nice and kind of slightly perfect.

"Okay, you're the prettiest girl in the state," Rachel stated matter-of-factly once Quinn finally let her go. "Now let's top that."

Quinn tried on several more items, as well as the purple skirt that she ended up buying. And then Rachel turned to her with a foreboding smirk.

"My turn," she said, and Quinn groaned.

She left Quinn alone to guard their booth, and promptly returned with an armful of ominously stripe-patterned fabric.

"You'll love it," she assured Quinn. "Or at least, I will," she added with a scary little cackle.

The armful of ominous stripes turned out to be a very short dress with a babydoll collar and a pair of light pink leggings.

"No knee socks, no complaints," Rachel instructed archly, and zipped up the dress. She gave Quinn a rather appreciative onceover, and Quinn turned to the mirror with a resigned sigh.

It was, unsurprisingly, entirely hideous; but for some strange reason, Quinn really couldn't bring herself to hate it at all.

* * *

Rachel drives them to her place in her car. Quinn isn't sure how she feels about that. On one hand, she doesn't think she can really drive safely in her current condition, with her hands as jumpy and her chest as tight. On the other hand, it is entirely possible that even like this, she would still be less likely than Rachel to cause a crash.

"Are you scared?" Rachel asks right after making a horrifyingly sharp turn, glancing sideways at Quinn.

Quinn is tempted to reply, 'Yeah, of your  _driving_ ,' but simply nods instead. She's slightly too anxious to not be sincere.

"You know they'll love you," Rachel says, mercifully looking back at the road, and avoiding bumping into the big truck in front of them. "They already kind of do."

Quinn purses her lips and swallows down the quiet yet inescapable  _'But what if they don't_.'

"You know, I don't really remember it, but when I was little," Rachel says, stealing a yellow light, "there was a certain doctor who wanted – this is Lima, Ohio, you know, and anyway there are a lot of doctors who are horrible shitstains, especially in this specific field, and – anyway, he wanted to perform a certain procedure to…  _alter_  my genitals. To make them more… typical."

Quinn turns to frown at her, feeling her stomach turn to lead. "Shit, Rachel," she breathes, horrified.

But Rachel shakes her head in reassurance. "My dads wouldn't let it happen," she says. "They lodged a complaint and changed hospitals and basically threatened to sue him for malpractice. I'm not saying they're saints or anything. They can be so frustrating and they have some really annoying opinions about some things. But – the truly important things, they get." She shoots Quinn a steady, impossibly tender look. "And I know they'll get you."

Quinn stares at Rachel's profile, whose eyes are finally fixed properly back on the road, feeling her heartbeat pick up and her face flush as the full implications of Rachel's words sink in.  _The truly important things, they get._

_And Rachel knows they'll get her._

_Because she is truly important._

* * *

She told Santana on a Saturday, after a Lopez dinner to which she wasn't late for once, when they were in Santana's room listening to 8tracks rap playlists, Quinn having lost spectacularly at Super Smash Bros. Twice.

"There's something I need to tell you," Quinn found herself saying, feeling blood rush into her head, thundering in her ears, and immediately regretting doing this here, now, instead of at school, or over the phone, where there was the next class or the disconnect symbol to escape to.

But Santana looked at her, as bored and disdainful as ever; as bored and disdainful as when they were eleven and Quinn ran away from home to crouch, crying, outside Santana's doorstep, and Santana opened the door and threw a towel and a Mars bar at her before shutting it back in her face; as bored and disdainful as when they were fourteen and Brittany started going out with Artie, and Santana dragged Quinn from football practice and forced her to buy her a burger and buried her face in her arms instead of eating it and pretended not to cry; as bored and disdainful as when they were sixteen and Quinn suddenly didn't have a home to eat Saturday dinners at, until suddenly, she did.

So Quinn told her, "I'm trans," and tried very hard not to panic as Santana stopped looking disdainful and bored.

"I've always suspected," Santana said, with a bit a smile.

"A-always?" Quinn repeated, feeling slightly queasy with hope and unease.

"You've been flinching for years every time someone called you 'Lucas'," Santana explained. "And your fucking asshole parents kicking you out was a big clue. You were a fucking varsity quarterback and an honors student, basically the perfect boring white kid. There had to be a reason, right?"

"O-oh," Quinn stuttered eloquently.

Santana looked at her silently for several moments, and then sort of sighed through her nose, and said, "So can I finally call you by your fucking name now?"

Quinn's breath caught in her throat, tears caught in her eyes. For a second, things were still. Santana wasn't smiling anymore; somehow, it was more reassuring like that. "Quinn," she finally breathed out. "You can call me Quinn."

"Quinn," Santana repeated, her expression inscrutable. "You want me to paint your toenails? Britt forgot her entire kit here."

Quinn stared at her, and Santana shrugged. "It seemed like that kinda mood," she said.

She painted Quinn's toenails blue, and then beat her again in SSBB.

* * *

Quinn stares at the brown, square, incredibly average door in front of her, struggling with her irrationally quickening breath. They've made it this far. She's wearing a pretty skirt. Rachel is warm and solid beside her. And Quinn is stuck, staring at a door.

"Are we chickening out?" Rachel asks her lightly.

Quinn glances from the door to Rachel, making a conscious effort to loosen her fists.

Rachel shrugs. "It's fine by me if we are, for the record," she says. "I already think you're the bravest person I know."

"That's, um," Quinn mumbles, and shakes her head, and exhales loudly, and knocks on the door.

* * *

She was sitting on the grass near the running track at seven a.m. one Tuesday, hugging the bundle of her slightly sweat-soaked uniform in her arms and watching Rachel practice. Rachel was brilliant as always, moving with her usual bold fluency.

Then Rachel jumped and turned and landed badly, her foot turned at a strange angle, and she yelped and folded to the ground. Quinn's uniform went flying, and in two large leaps she was kneeling in front of Rachel, holding her breath. There was some worried murmuring from the dancers around her and she thought she heard Mercedes say something, but she didn't register it.

Rachel looked up at her, holding her foot. "Ouch," she said grumpily.

Quinn laughed in relief, bent over, and smoothly gathered Rachel into her arms in a bridal carry.

"It's just a twisted ankle," Rachel protested. "I can hobble perfectly well on my own."

"Nope," Quinn said, adjusting Rachel carefully in her arms. "We're going to the nurse's office."

"My fucking princess in shining armor," Rachel grumbled, winding her arms around Quinn's neck.

Quinn smiled down at her fondly. "My knight in slight distress."

* * *

The two men who open the door are middle aged and rather handsome, dressed in well-fitting slacks and shiny shoes and one very distinctive sweater with the smiling face of a bear on it. Rachel wraps them both in one tight, economical hug, kisses each of them in turn, and steps back to stand beside Quinn, slipping a hand into hers.

"Quinn, this weirdo is my dad, Hiram, and that weirdo is my daddy, Leroy," Rachel says, gesturing from the tall man in glasses to the shorter one in the bear sweater. "Dads, this incredible, shy, talented, gorgeous, super tall woman is my girlfriend, Quinn."

"It's a pleasure," says the Mr. Berry called Leroy.

"Quinn, Rachel has been physically incapable of shutting up about you," says the Mr. Berry called Hiram. "Please come in."

Rachel's home is… very appropriate. The walls are filled with shelves of books, musical posters and pictures of Rachel and her dads throwing picnics, dancing together, singing into ketchup bottles and piled on top of one very big dog. The table her dads have set for dinner isn't very large, but it's heaped with seemingly dozens of presumably vegan-friendly dishes, and on each plate there's a napkin folded into the shape of a swan.

"So how's football season going?" Hiram asks Quinn as they settle down at the table.

"We've lost, um, every single game," Quinn tells him with a self-deprecating smile. "But it's been fun."

"Oh, yeah, they're terrible," Rachel chimes in, one cheek puffed out with roasted broccoli. "Absolutely not worth the uniform. The school should really give their budget to us, instead."

Quinn laughs, but can't really disagree. The conversation shifts towards Rachel's dancing, and Quinn is all too happy to let Rachel handle most of the talking. Occasionally one of Rachel's dads directs a question at Quinn, but, to her immense relief, none of them have been very personal or accusatory at all.

Quinn's just finished her unexpectedly delicious eggplant lasagna when Rachel puts down her fork and scrapes back her chair.

"I'm going to the toilet," she announces, and grabs Quinn's hand. "Quinn, come with."

She leads her to a small bathroom with a pattern of golden tiles on one wall and a big rubber duck sitting on the ledge of sink. Once inside, Rachel closes the door behind them and turns to Quinn. "How are you doing?" she asks, casually running her fingertips down Quinn's forearm. "It's going great, I think."

Quinn tries to smile, but she's not sure she's entirely successful. "I – I have no idea why."

"They like you," Rachel says.

Quinn shakes her head, giving up on her attempt at a smile. "There's nothing about me that any parents would like," she mumbles.

Rachel cackles, and deliberately steps on Quinn's foot. It probably would have hurt more if she weren't so tiny. "That happens to be the most untrue shit I've heard today," she says, tapping Quinn's chest with an accusatory finger. "And I've been watching Fox News."

Quinn can't help snorting at that, and Rachel gives her a self-satisfied smile.

"Quinn, you're thoughtful and fun and absurdly gentle and you make me feel like a  _star_. I don't think there's anything about you any parent  _wouldn't_  like." Rachel looks at her like she means every word, and Quinn just cannot fathom how she got so lucky. "Come on, we should get back to the Quinn-is-the-best-girlfriend-and-my-dads-love-her fest before they think I'm trying to seduce you in the guest bathroom."

Rachel's dads don't seem like they've been thinking about Rachel seducing Quinn in bathrooms. They don't seem like they've been thinking about them at all. They're rather preoccupied with kissing each other very thoroughly over their wine glasses.

Rachel groans loudly. " _Dads_!"

"Sorry, sweetie," Hiram says, pulling away from his husband and not looking particularly apologetic. "In our defense, you two were taking a while."

Rachel chats idly about the upcoming biology test and a show she's planning to attend with Kurt and Mercedes as they finish dinner, and her dads finish their wine. Quinn tries to inch in the direction of the dishes, but Hiram shakes his head and directs her to the living room instead.

"Here, Quinn, sit in this serious-looking armchair for a second," he says, pointing at a very serious-looking armchair.

But Rachel simply rolls her eyes and leads Quinn to the big, lumpy, pillow-strewn couch instead. The Berry men sit down in the chairs in front of them as Rachel settles next to Quinn, pressing up against her side, and Quinn leans into her in relief. She definitely prefers it this way.

"Alright, Quinn, let's get to business," Leroy says, and Quinn reflexively straightens her back, feeling the familiar tug of anxiety. "There are a few things that need to be said."

She nods clumsily.

"Quinn, Rachel has told us a little bit about your home situation," he says, his tone somber, and Quinn's fingers clench in the fabric of her skirt of their own accord. Rachel silently places one of her hands over Quinn's. "Well, we don't mean to be presumptuous," Leroy continues. "But we want you to know you're welcome here –"

"Always, no matter what," Hiram interjects.

"And we know you don't know us very well, and vice versa, I suppose, but we would love for you to feel at home here. The woman our daughter's described is, quite frankly –"

"Remarkable," Hiram cuts in again.

Leroy nods, and continues smoothly, "And we'd like to get to know you, Quinn, and, if you'd be willing, to properly welcome you to our family."

Quinn stares at them, her lips slightly parted, unable to reply. She feels herself start to cry. She doesn't mean to, but she can't really help it; she's relieved and overwhelmed and the accumulated stress from the day is simply pouring out of her in big, salty rivulets.

Rachel makes indistinct noises and climbs on top of her, her hands gripping her shoulders, strong and stable, and Quinn is vaguely aware of Hiram and Leroy getting up out of their chairs and quietly walking out of the room, leaving Rachel and Quinn alone on the couch. Quinn buries herself in Rachel, in her shirt, in her neck, in her beautiful hair, and cries.

Rachel says nothing, only grips Quinn to her and traces light, tickling shapes on the back of Quinn's neck with four fingertips and brushes the ends of her hair. It feels like Quinn cries all the way until morning, cries until Rachel's shirt is half water and salt; but eventually she runs out, and slumps back, sniffing and hiccupping her way back to even breaths.

Rachel smoothes Quinn's hair out of her face and smiles hopefully at her. "That was the good kind of cry, right?" she asks.

Quinn nods emphatically and wipes her face with the back of her hand. "Your parents are wonderful," she says earnestly.

"Eh, they're okay, I guess," Rachel says with a shrug.

"Your family is wonderful," Quinn continues, intent. "You are wonderful. You are so wonderful, Rachel."

Rachel laughs. It sounds a little breathy and strange.

"I'm just so…" Quinn flails uselessly for the appropriate words.

"I know," Rachel says, squeezing Quinn's bicep. "Hey, Quinn." Rachel looks at her, a half smile at the corners of her lips. "Thank you for being here right now."

Quinn shakes her head, squeezing her eyes shut against her tears, pulling Rachel closer to her, blindly finding her lips. She kisses her, grateful and desperate and helpless, all of her fears and her ridiculous hopes dissipating in the heat of Rachel's mouth. Rachel grips her shirt and cups her neck and melts into her, sweet and confident and achingly perfect.

They break the kiss and Quinn rubs at her eyes and opens them again. They're probably all red and puffy, but she doesn't really care. She looks at Rachel, from the slight frown between her eyebrows to her perfect, unapologetic nose to her nearly omnipresent little smirk. "Thank you," she rasps intently, her voice thick and rough. "Thank you for being."

Rachel barks out an incredulous little laugh. "You silly…" she starts, and then shakes her head and wriggles closer, pressing a soft, lingering kiss just above Quinn's collarbone. "Let's do this again sometime," she says, laying her head on Quinn's chest.

Quinn closes her eyes and breathes, feeling Rachel's weight lift and lower gently with every inhale. "Okay," she agrees quietly. Privately, she thinks she really wouldn't mind doing this, again and again and forever.


End file.
